


Two of a Kind

by DearestShay



Category: Fifty Shades of Grey - All Media Types, Multi-Fandom, No Fandom
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey, Romance, Short One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27769048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearestShay/pseuds/DearestShay
Summary: Their eyes finally lock, and he approaches her with an offer she can't force herself to refuse... Rated M for sexual content. One Shot. A/C
Relationships: Christian Grey/Anastasia Steele
Kudos: 10





	Two of a Kind

_Through the buzz and fray of the bustling café, he's spotted her._

The weight of his grays overcast her, blanket her and wrap her into the stormy funnel so all she can see is him, is gray.

She doesn't look away, and neither does he.

Her hands, restless and twisting moments ago, are wrenched tight around the iced coffee in her grasp, sweating against her palms. The chill crackling over her fingers contrasts starkly with the heat humming over her skin, her belly. She swallows thick, her eyes trained on the man as he rises from his seat and slinks over to her, all feline grace and devastating command.

The funnel does not falter but shifts with him.

Step. Step. Step—he's all she sees.

The storm approaches.

It's an eternity, a millisecond, until he finally reaches her, roosting in the seat across from her, uninvited and intoxicating. Rolling up his sleeves and teasing her with sun-touched skin wrapped tightly around corded veins and hidden strength.

Dizzy, breathless, she gives him a short greeting, a fumbling one.

His non-response is grating, if not 100% rude.

And lasts for far too long.

They've seen each other before. Or, at least, she's seen him.

Watched him.

Fantasized about him.

Brought herself to such earth-shaking climax to the memory of his tall, masculine beauty that her vibrator had died during, and she'd still kept coming. Then masturbating and coming again, undressing him and licking him and sucking him in every manner she could imagine, in every new instance she imagined him in.

But he'd never looked at her before, not when he ordered the same coffee every weekday and not when she closed her eyes beneath the sheets of her bed. Her fantasies lacked some invisible depth that she couldn't put her finger on, but she shuddered in pleasure from him regardless.

Now that he's looked at her. Acknowledged her. Burned himself into the wild tattoo of her heartbeat with his eyes... She realizes what she'd been missing.

His implacable smugness.

He simply blinks at her, long and dark lashes that seem almost too long on a man, considering her up close now, head cocked just to the side. Looking her up and down and saying nothing. Giving away nothing.

She licks her lips, her eyes wide and brow furrowed as she waits for him. And he lets her wait. Playing some secret game that only he knows the rules to.

This isn't normal, she thinks, shakily bemused. No one just walks up to you—to her—wordlessly, and looks you up and down like a wolf considering its meal. Like he own this space. Like he owns _her_ in his space.

"Let me cut to the chase." His voice is smooth, dark metal. It pierces her nerves and drips liquid hot through her veins, pooling and throbbing in her aching core. Those eyes never flit and his hands steeple on the soft grained table before him. "I want you to visit me later on tonight. I have an apartment in the city; I want you to show up this evening. Yes or no?"

Direct. Arrogant. No nonsense or pretty words.

No bullshit.

How dare he. Is he really approaching her in a public space, propositioning her for sex? He doesn't know the slightest thing about her. She could have anything between her legs and any form of deformity impinging it. She ought to slap him. Yell at him. Push out of her chair and storm out theatrically.

"Yes," she breathes. There isn't enough air in her lungs to disguise her stuttered inhale, he's commanded it all. And he can have it. She seems to be giving willingly.

The deafening thump of her heart beating is not enough to muffle the slight exhale Eyes releases. Or distract her from the barest hint of a smirk on his inhumanly alluring face.

There's a card pulled from the breast pocket of his deep navy suit and a fountain pen dancing across it in mere beats, and then the card is in her hand, the address on it etched into all her available faculties.

The time thereon resonates in her womb. _10pm._

"Don't be late."

Eyes leaves the shoppe then, taking all of the oxygen in the room, in her lungs, with him.

She doesn't move, doesn't breathe correctly, for an indeterminate time. She can't peel her quaking hand off of the damned cup, and the iciness of it has little to no effect on her body temperature. She hasn't once looked away from where Eyes has just sat across from her, despite how it unsettled the unsuspecting coffee drinker a table away.

This is insane, she thinks, and the weight of the card between her fingers turns ponderous and demanding as she looks down to it.

Absurd and utterly laughable.

She stands up then, stalking out the door and making her way to the nearest pharmacy.

* * *

…

* * *

Senseless.

Ludicrous.

Irresponsible.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The elevator dings with her arrival, pervading her scalding inward rebuke, and if possible the volume of her thoughts double, come pummeling faster and harsher as she stands at the penthouse door. Stares at it. Knocks on it. Waits.

She almost loses her nerve in the wait. Almost turns tail and scuttles back into the elevator hoping the attendant downstairs wouldn't judge her too harshly for her shame.

Then the door opens.

And Eyes stares down at her. Looking as unearthly enticing as he had this morning. Maybe even more so, with just a cotton white tee and faded blue jeans on. No greeting. No showing her in. He just stares.

At her face…

Lower.

Her neck…

Lower.

Her breasts, tracing down to her hips…

Lower.

Stopping at her peep-toed wedge sandals.

And then meeting her eyes again.

He'd absolutely just undressed her there, with his eyes. Those searing gray eyes that send a numbing chill down her spine and light her on fire when they trail her.

He's seen that she's worn a fitting, pleated bra instead of the beige one she'd had earlier on. That it matches the soft, red panties that replaced her bulky, grandmotherly ones. That she's shaven every possible, touchable inch of her body in preparation for him, and that her pussy is clenching like a fist, dribbling like a spout as he arouses her beyond appropriate measure.

Again, she feels as if looking into the eye of a storm. Watching it roil and billow out until it claims her, consumes her, and traps her in.

And then it releases her, and she's gawping at his toned back as he walks away, back into the suite.

When her limbs reconnect to her brain, she takes one hesitant step forward, then another, and after a millennium she completes the four steps that place her in this stranger's home, his mercy.

She'd not been totally brainless. She left a note on her coffee table. Where'd she be. Emergency contact. What he looked like.

Not that she has anyone in her life that will look for it, for her. She could very well be murdered right here at his front door and no one will think circumstances amiss until she didn't pay her rent next month and the landlord went knocking on her door.

She abandoned her family long ago. Was utterly incapable of making and maintaining friendships.

No pets, even.

Her emergency contact is her supervisor at her menial desk job, and for no reason other than she doesn't know anyone else and have their phone number. This further sense of loneliness was one more block on top of her already large stack. It all but cascaded around her when she stopped to write her whereabouts out —aside from the all ready gnawing, everyday bleakness that seemed an inescapable reality.

So once it was written, it only made sense to come here.

To come to him.

Because she was so very lonely and bored and he wanted her, for whatever reason.

So she wrote the note. Knowing it would be moot if she was harmed tonight. Not caring. Hopefully the note means she's extending her last ditch effort trying for herself, to anyone if they happened upon it. Hopefully they would see she knows how very dangerous the situation she's put herself in is, and realize that she is willing to accept any consequence.

Is this what her generation does when they have their Tinder dates?

There'd been no warning of meeting this man. No signal that her world was about to tilt when he showed up. But…

Is this a date, even?

Could it possibly be when they didn't know each other's names?

Her forehead hit the door as she closed it behind her, her eyes shut tight. This is without a doubt the dumbest, most reckless thing she's ever done in her unimaginative, atypical life.

And she's never been so excited.

So turned on.

So _exposed._

Because that hum is back. That electricity that tingles her toes and tightens her nipples in one long, sonorous reverb, is back. Her breath almost catches in her throat, but she forces it out. One harsh exhale that causes her shoulders to shake as she clenches her eyes tight before spinning on her heel. Looking at him as he watches her.

His gaze is earnest.

Hungry.

Hard as the marble floors she is melting on.

She can't think straight now and, blessedly, that means the internal belittling has regressed to babbling nonsense. She's so lost in the babbling, however, that she doesn't react as he moves closer and closer. His lean body leaning in that masculine sway that you only see from the male models on TV. Until he's leaning over her. Dominating her with his presence. Engulfing her in the storm.

"Are you ready?" he whispers suddenly, and her eyes fly up to his, searching them for any sign that this isn't what she wants. What her body is singing for. That she can walk away from this immaculate creature this instant and leave with any shred of her dignity in tow.

She doesn't find what she half-heartedly looked for.

She finds something else.

A lust and loneliness that mirrors and rivals her own.

"Take me," she says, and she's barely wrapped her lips around the last syllable before his lips are on hers, his mouth on her mouth. She feels all of those prior feelings in his kiss, tastes her untampered desire and anticipation on his tongue as it thrusts against hers. Stroking. Licking. Coaxing.

He's forced her back against the door with the presence of his body alone, their only physical connection the pulling of their mouths. His hands brace above her head, the door above her, and he commands the very air around her as he seduces her with his full, skilled mouth.

She could die, she thinks; just that single, fleeting thought. Of pleasure, of yearning, of shock, she can't specify. But she would die contentedly.

There is nothing else coherent that she can cling to, can use to ration her unbearable need for the stranger sucking on her tongue, blinding her with his taste, his scent. She reaches for him first. Wrapping her arms around him and burying her fingers into thick locks as soft as spun silk. His response is lowering his knees, not daring to tear his mouth away from hers, and urging her legs to band around his narrow waist.

He carries her somewhere—hell if she has a clue; cares—and drops her. Onto a couch, it seems. The abruptness of the action temporarily stuns her, and she blinks as her head whips around, taking in her surroundings as rapidly as her eyes can paint the images.

And then she is being slid down, her lower half pulled up against the couch's arm and her dress chucked up to her chin, and she doesn't get a moment to hesitate when she hears Eyes' deep inhale from between her legs, feels the scratch of his jaw on her inner thighs.

She moans, loudly and impatiently, and once again she doesn't care where she is or what she's allowing to happen. Even less so as she hears a sharp rip signaling the disrepair of her panties, followed by the wet lash of Eyes' tongue up and down her quivering sex.

Her nails claw at the pillows beside her, her back shooting up and her muscles bearing down as she cries out with her first orgasm. There is nothing she can do to stop it. It'd come so suddenly, born from the longing that sat in her belly from the moment he'd looked at her.

But he doesn't stop his assault, despite his accomplishment. His mission continues on.

His mouth and tongue shape to the bud of her clitoris, sucking and pulling and nursing at her until again she stiffens beneath him and comes undone; her hands locked in his hair for her hips to freely undulate against him until she is trying to push him away, weak and panting and begging him to release her.

He ignores her protests, and swats her hands as if she is but a greedy child looking for sweets, before those same hands take to stretching her, caressing her. One travels beneath the bodice of her dress, slipping beneath the cup of her bra and rolling her taut nipple between his dexterous fingers. The other finds two fingers inside her, a pressure sitting in her womb as he presses down against her walls, forcing her open, and he returns to lapping at her oversensitive flesh, preparing her.

She's about to suffer her third orgasm from his lazy licking when he rises above her, his mouth glistening with his triumph. But there is no smugness in his expression. No arrogance, now. She shivers under the weight of his gaze, hot and steady as he pulls his shirt over his head, undoes the zipper of his jeans.

Unconsciously, she begins to undress as well. Quickly, efficiently. She wiggles the dress off and lets it hit the floor beside her, then unfastens her bra and slides the tatters of her panties off.

She could stare at him the rest of the night like this, if he allowed her, but he seems unwilling as he grips her thighs and positions her so his hips will meet her hips on the same plane.

He's _big_ , teasing her slick entrance with the heavy head of his impressive cock as his eyes bore into hers, daring her to look away. She makes a conscious effort to relax herself at the threat of his width, knowing he will be a challenge to take but needing to accept it, needing to take pleasure in him.

He presses into her slowly, a test, and she groans. Her muscles quivering around and against the invasion of him, pushing him out and greedily beckoning him in. He waits, staring down at her, the severe, hard line of his jaw clenched. She sees him move before feeling it, studies the powerful lines of his body ripple and flex as he drags her onto him rather than pushing in to her, using her body as if she weighed no more than a couple pounds.

"Fuck," the curse comes from the both of them, in unison, the pressure becoming a breathing entity within them as Eyes sinks down further, stretching the plush barrier of her walls as he enters her.

Not for the first time this day, she can't breathe. She doesn't. There aren't enough resources to dedicate to her lungs when her body conquered all sensation. When he imposes upon her as he does.

Her body believes he will continue his torturous dragging of her down onto him. Believes he will take her as slowly as his movements suggest.

Her body couldn't have been more wrong.

When the tip of him finally breaches her his hands turn to vices. His grasp on her tightens, as does the grip of her sex around him as he slams the rest of the way inside her, filling her so fully and violently that again an orgasm of pain-laced pleasure knots her every nerve.

Tears—genuine, salty, burning tears roll from the corners of her eyes as he pummels into her, as she receives him. She didn't know she was allowed to feel this good, didn't know it was possible. This stranger's touch has done something no long term boyfriend or college hookup has ever done.

Made her weep.

Whoever he is, whatever Eyes' real name might be, he isn't perturbed by her sporadic fit. Her body bounces with his thrusts, her vision thrown with each punishing push, but she thinks he has the barest smirk on his lightly sheened face despite her unreliable sight.

Suddenly, he's wrenched her up, pinning her breasts to his chest as he spins them round and sits himself on the couch with her atop him, lodged deep inside her and deeper still as she sinks lower.

With one firm slap on her ass cheek, he murmurs, "Ride me," and she raises up to do so immediately, whimpering at his impeding width stretching her so exquisitely. She rocks atop of him, her eyes closed, panting and sighing, not bothering with grace or delicacy. She knows he's watching her. Looking up at her. Her skin burns everywhere his eyes touch, ignites where they linger. She can't dignify her eagerness with an excuse, a plea. She just keeps gyrating, does what he instructed.

Fucking herself with him as he had done with her.

It is nothing and everything like her fantasies of him. Not even close but so, so good that even still she squeezes tears back as she squeezes her hidden muscles around him.

A flutter touches her womb, and as if he can peer into the places his body joined with hers, he stills her with one tight band of his arm around her back, forcing them flush. She opens her eyes—panicked, flustered and frustrated. His gaze is the shade of a shadow, dark and ominous and reaching her in a way that gives her palpitations. His hand skims up her side, kneading her breast for a moment before continuing the ascent, wrapping around the back of her neck and crashing her lips down to his.

His tongue passes between her teeth, licking her languidly as he drops lower in his seat, her balanced on the bridge of his hips. And then he is fucking her. Pounding her with so much force and aggression that she can't keep from flying into the air before landing back down and biting through her lip and rolling her eyes back as he claims her so powerfully.

He's so solid beneath her. So strong and visceral and _male_. His heart beat is fast and heavy beneath her palms, his skin soft and dewed with sweat. _And he smells so fucking good._ Almost sinfully so. Despite the speed of his thrusts, the strength needed to thrust into her and hold her, his breath is steady. Deep and only slightly disturbed.

"I'm gonna come," she sighs against his lips. A plea that says more.

_Don't stop._

_Please don't stop._

_How can you feel this good?_

The spasms ruin her, wracking her to the point of near pain as she stiffens above him, convulsing over and over and over and being flung farther out of her body so her soul is flying above her. His pace slows for her, letting her milk him with her orgasm, chuckling when she collapses on top of him. That hand at her nape enfolds into her hair, parting through the mass until he reaches the ends.

He fists the hold he has on her hair, yanking her head back, and against her throat he whispers, "Good girl. Make me come, now."

A pitiful noise resonates deep within her; from the pain of his fist in her hair or the sensation his words imbue her with, she can't be certain.

But she lifts herself, somehow, on jellied limbs, moaning as he slides out of her with a lewd wetness that makes her skin feverish; dropping between his legs, onto her knees, and meeting his hooded stare.

She shapes her hands around him, marveling at the size, that this had been within her. She meets his eyes, her teeth sinking into the flesh of her lip at the headiness in his stare, and the look he gives her is so seducing that she reaches out to him with her tongue, tasting the smooth flesh at the tip of his cock and gasping as he groans.

His Adam's apple bobs, his chest heaves with his sharp intake of air. She needs to see more of this. More of what she can do to him. If it is even a tenth of what he's given to her then she will happily die to let him experience it.

She does it again, licking across the seam of his tip and wrapping her lips around the tip of him.

"Fuck. Suck me. Make me come, good girl."

She need hear nothing more. She takes as much as she can in her mouth, struggling, but desperate to fit in as much as she can. Her tongue writhes against his length, stroking him as she works him into her. She flattens her tongue as she pulls him to the back of her throat, resisting the clench of her stomach that signals her gag reflex.

"God, yes," he moans, his tense hips bucking up, forcing her throat to make room for him, and she moans around him, tears beading in her eyes again; her hand slinking down to between her legs, not rubbing—just pressing against the hungry ache to stifle it.

The delight in his reactions, the feeling of accomplishments in his every shuddering breath; it all drives her. She can ignore the amount of saliva needed to lubricate her efforts, dripping down her chest and splattering at her knees. Ignore the copious amounts of tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. Ignore what seeing him splayed out and at her disposal as she wrings pleasure from him does to her insides.

A violent noise—primal and rumbling from his abdominals—cuts through the air as he comes. Flooding her mouth with his seed. Choking her.

She wants to take it all.

Swallow every last drop.

But there's so much, such heat scalding her tongue and inner cheeks, that it dribbles down her chin, splatters her mouth as she releases him with a pop.

"Fuck," he murmurs, gripping his softening length and tapping the flesh against her lip, coating her with his semen, and she can't withhold her smile.

She gathers up on shaky legs, leaning over him and kissing him, a grateful kiss. She pulls away to regard him and his hands paw at her sides, drawing her back into his lap and running his nose along her jaw.

"Not bad," he says, his timbre low and reverberating.

She smirks, inclining her head to allow him easier access for his canoodling. "Not sure I can say the same."

His eyebrow arches severely, and his palm lands soundly on the curve of her ass, making her squeal.

She doesn't acquiesce with words.

Instead she angles her body for him, running her hands over her breasts, then under them, offering herself to him once more.

A wicked moment passes as he looks into her wide blue eyes, and without breaking his gaze, this beautiful man—this beautiful stranger—wraps his lips around her nipple and sucks so hard that it draws the very breath from her lungs. He releases her with a crude pop, peppering her heaving chest with kisses.

"You're staying with me tonight," he whispers against her skin, through her skin, into her womb.

"Who's 'me'?" she asks, because despite that she stupidly showed up here, despite what she's let him do to her and what she wants him to do further to her, she hasn't requested his name. Doesn't know the first thing about him besides that he is gorgeous, well-trimmed, and fucks like a being otherworldly.

And she will continue not knowing it. A devilish glint in his eye, he spreads her legs, sliding three fingers into her and smirking as he drops from her vision, as her eyes roll back.

His words, his silken voice, vibrate through his chest, through the slick skin that borders her own and sits at the very center of her core.

"Wouldn't you like to know…"


End file.
